


Chance Encounters (Falling in Love)

by carolion



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-31
Updated: 2011-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolion/pseuds/carolion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cook stops himself from gaping, but he can't stop himself from staring. Because, in the land of famous? David Archuleta way outstrips him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chance Encounters (Falling in Love)

Cook is minding his own business, bending over the fruit display and squinting at the bananas at the grocery store when it happens. There are shutter-clicks coming from behind the sunglasses rack, but he tries to ignore them and touches an almost-ripe banana, debating whether or not it will go bad before he eats it. He’s _sort_ of used to the paparazzi. He doesn’t really care about them, as long as they don’t get too close or invade his house or anything. (It’s just bizarre – who the hell is going to be interested in what kind of fruit he buys? It’s not like banana sales are going to go up because David Cook bought bananas at the local Raley’s.) He gets a little annoyed because he certainly doesn’t look his best right now, a baseball cap low on his unshaven face, lacking any sort of hair gel or make up to make him look bright and perky, and he’s wearing dirty, ripped jeans that are about a size too big thanks to the personal trainer. It’s laundry day, and his shirt is stained and has a hole in the armpit, but he’s just _grocery shopping_ , not like, posing for photographs. Except, apparently, as long as he’s out in public where the vultures can get him, he’s posing for photographs.

It’s not like Cook has been super famous for very long. (Probably why they’re still buzzing about him – he’s still fresh meat.) He bummed around with MWK for a while before doing his own solo thing, which built up steam until a major label scout saw him perform and snatched him as quick as possible. Everything happened kind of fast after that and – well, here he is. His first single hit the airwaves and suddenly he is like, _famous_ , the kind of famous where people want his autograph and scream when they go to his concerts (and actually go to his concerts, wow) and he is doing interviews and his album is doing really, really well. It’s kind of overwhelming, but mostly _awesome_ , so he deals with the crappy bits, like paparazzi who want to see if he buys cumquats or cucumbers. It doesn’t even cross his mind that they might not be snapping pictures of him until a gentle, easily recognizable voice interrupts his shopping.

“Um, excuse me? I – I need to, um, just the – the mangos? I’m sorry,” David Archuleta says from behind him, and it’s enough of a surprise that Cook stands straight up and whirls, dropping the bag of three or four apples he had in his hands. He stops himself from gaping, but he can’t stop from staring, because, in the land of famous? David Archuleta _way_ outstrips him. He looks exactly how he looks in the magazines or on tv, which is annoying, because he looks _perfect_ in pictures, smooth skin and full lips and dark lashes. He’s got these hazel eyes, which Cook had always assumed were contacts or photo-shopped or something (like his blemish free skin, that couldn’t be natural, except) but Cook is gazing right into them and they’re too – too unique to be contacts, flecks of green and brown intermingled with threads of gold.

Cook realizes he’s just been standing there, blocking the way, a few beats too late. The sounds of cameras are going nuts, and Archuleta is just waiting, patiently, with a slightly anxious look on his face. David Archuleta was discovered, or rather ‘rediscovered’ a couple years after he did a stint on Star Search. Everyone knew the story about his paralyzed vocal chord, and how it is kind of a miracle that he could sing at all, much less how _well_ he could sing. The kid had been at the top of the Pop Charts by the time he was seventeen, and had been touring and releasing albums since. His third album was about to drop, Cook knows, except this one would be under different circumstances – Archuleta had recently come out to the public as homosexual. As far as Cook knows he’s been pretty well-received, but it isn’t like he has Google Alerts on the kid or anything. (Well, not exactly a kid anymore. Archuleta is nineteen and damn mature; has to be after so many years in show business.) Still, Cook thinks he can see the lines of stress in his face, in the way he looks past Cook to the paparazzi trying to be sneaky and failing, how his expression goes a little stiff.

“You’ve dropped your apples,” Archuleta points out quietly, and then kneels at Cook’s feet and begins to gather up the fruit. Cook freezes. You know the thing about David Archuleta coming out? Well Cook hadn’t ever tried to hide that about himself, that he is bisexual. He’d made jokes about it during the very first interview, and he has never been ashamed or lied about it to anyone. And, well, Archuleta is attractive. _Very_ attractive, and he’s kind of on his knees in front of Cook and Cook’s thoughts are spinning off in a bad, bad way. Click-click-click reminds him that they aren’t alone, and Cook practically drops to his knees just to escape the photolens. He takes the apples from Archuleta’s hands and puts them bag into the bag, pausing to stare at the younger man, who looks calmly back.

“Thanks, and ah, sorry.” Cook tries out a grin – it comes maybe a bit flirtatiously (totally by accident), because he can see the teenager blushing. “Hey, I’m David Cook.” He extends his hand and prays that Archuleta doesn’t brush him off.

“Yeah, I know. Um, I like that song, _’Try to leave a light on when I’m gone / Even in the daylight, shine on / And when it’s late at night you can look inside / you won’t feel so alone’_ … It’s awesome.” The other David smiles brightly and Cook’s world gets turned upside down. He’s never heard his lyrics sung so sweetly, so pure and just spilling from Archuleta’s mouth like he sings them in the shower with no prompting whatsoever. Cook’s heart flips in his chest. Archuleta takes his outstretched hand and shakes it awkwardly, juggling the bags he is holding. “I’m David Archuleta. I guess, um, you can call me Archie? A lot of people, um, yeah, it’s sort of my nickname.”

Cook nods, still a little stunned by the impromptu singing. He knows, like everyone else in the world, that David Archuleta likes to burst into song, but that it would be _his_ song, and _here_ , is kind of intense. (Cook’s never been starstruck before, and it’s not really _starstruck_ , it’s something else, something specific about Archuleta that just-) Archuleta stands, and Cook hurries to do the same, brushing off his pants even though there’s nothing to brush off.

“Oh, yeah, you can just call me Cook, it’s fine.” Archie smiles beatifically at him, then leans across the fruit to snag a mango. And, oh, of course, that’s what they were here for in the first place. _Fruit_. He finds himself strangely disappointed, looking for things to continue the thread of conversation. But Cook has picked out all his fruit, and Archuleta is clearly still picking. There’s nothing keeping him here. His eyes go to the paparazzi, whose cameras are still poised, catching the two David’s as they shop. He leans forward, up against the younger David and puts a hand on his back. He can feel the boy stiffen slightly, but puts his lips near his ear anyway.

“I’m going to go ahead and try and sneak out of here before we attract any more attention. Good luck with the mangos, man. And the album.” Cook runs his hand up Archie’s back until his fingertips rest against the boy’s neck, and then he squeezes reassuringly and backs off, waving a hand at the pop singer as he stared after Cook, looking a little bewildered and embarrassed.

Cook goes home and bravely resists calling Neal to tell him about the encounter (because Neal will just roll his eyes and say ‘So?’ in that extremely bored way he has), and he tries to busy himself by writing music. For some reason every line he tries to write is about chance encounters and missed opportunities. It leaves him feeling anxious and wound up, grasping for a phantom feeling he can’t quite place.

 

The first he hears about it is when his mother calls him at ten the next morning.

“Oh honey, I’m so glad for you!” She says as soon as he picks up, steam rolling over his sleepy ‘H’lo?’ “You’ve been alone for a long time and he’s _such_ a nice boy, so good looking! Why didn’t you tell me? I had to find out from some paparazzi photos? Is that anyway to treat your mother? Never mind, I’m not mad, I can’t be, I’m too _happy!_ ” She sounds so genuinely delighted, almost choked up with pride and emotion.

Cook has no idea _what_ she’s talking about.

“Mom,” he says, rolling out of bed. “Mom, what are you talking about? Who’s a nice boy? And _what_ paparazzi pictures?”

She tuts at him. “Don’t play dumb with me young man, the secret is out! As if you had to keep him a secret, he’s simply adorable, and to think, you’re his first relationship since coming out! Oh honey, treat him right, won’t you?”

The pieces are kind of coming together in his head; clearly his mom thinks he’s in a relationship with someone she thinks is ‘adorable’ and who has just come out and-

“I mean, David Archuleta, I couldn’t ask for more! To be honest I was afraid you’d date someone _skanky_ , living in LA like you do, maybe one of those awful reality tv stars, but – anyway, I can’t wait to meet him. When will you visit us, Dave?”

David Archuleta? His mother – his mother who used to be sane, or so he thought – thinks he’s dating _David Archuleta?_ (Abstract hope flares up inside of him for a brief moment before he squashed it down, annoyed.) He scrambles for his computer – she’d mentioned something about paparazzi photos and, oh _no_. He opens up his internet browser and types in the first celebrity gossip website he can think of, watching, horrified, as the pictures load. His mother is still cooing in his ear, about what a sweet couple they make, and how intimate they had looked, and she’s _right_. The photos _do_ make them seem like a couple.

There’s a shot of Archuleta helping Cook gather his apples, their hands practically touching as Archie hands the fruit to Cook. They’re both smiling and, yup, it _had_ been flirtatious, and yup, Archie _had_ been blushing, but he was smiling too, looking up at Cook with this sweet, shy smile that made Cook’s heart beat a little faster, even now. The other pictures show them leaning over the fruit together, Archie’s hand on his waist (from where he’d been trying to get Cook’s attention the first time), his hand on Archie’s back, his face next to Archuleta’s, grinning slyly as he leaned away from the boy and waving playfully as Archuleta watched, a longing expression on his face. (Or what could be perceived as longing, though in person it had just been confused.) The most intimate picture was Cook’s hand gripping David Archuleta’s neck gently, his face still pressed up against the boy’s ear and hair. It looked like he was pressing a kiss to the kid’s head, a goodbye and ‘I love you’ – but that wasn’t the case at all. (He aches, somewhere deep inside, as he stares at the pictures. It’s like he’s looking at what his life could be – a future he could have one day. A partner who he loves and cherishes, grocery shopping and then heading home for a tumble in bed, messy hair and sloppy clothes. But none of it’s real.)

“Mom, I have to call you back.” He says firmly. The line is beeping. “No, mom, I really – I will talk to you later. I have to call- I have to call someone. Yes, I promise, I will call you back.” He hits the button to switch lines. “Hello?”

“Hello, David Cook? This is Emilie Rigger, David Archuleta’s publicist?” Awesome.

Apparently Emilie thinks he and Archie are dating _too_ , even though they are both denying it vehemently. She is a really, really stubborn lady.

“I can understand why David would want to keep this a secret,” she says firmly, despite Cook trying to butt in and tell her _’No, she’s got it all wrong, not dating, no’_ , “this being his first homosexual relationship since he’s come out, and having it be, well, _you_.” She pauses – Cook scowls. Is that a compliment or an insult? He’s not exactly sure. “You’re a little on the edge, Mr. Cook, a little less safe-“

“Now hang on a minute, _unsafe_ -?”

“-than his core demographic is used to. Not to mention his album drops in a _month_. We could play this as if he came out because he started dating you, though… That might appeal to people, the honesty card, yes.” She’s scheming. Cook can tell she’s scheming and he hasn’t even known her for very long. “When did you and David begin having sexual relations?”

“What!” Cook chokes, “We’re not-! There are no - _no sexual relations!_ None! At all! You are barking up the wrong tree lady, geez.” He runs a hand through his hair and sits down heavily on his bed, wishing he hadn’t bothered to leave his house yesterday.

Emilie doesn’t seem perturbed. “Oh, that’s good to hear. David is known for his strong moral code, you know, I’m glad he’s not bending that for any of your, um, _desires_.” Cook squawks – she ignores him. “How do you feel about charity work?”

The question takes him off guard, and he stops spitting ‘No!’ at her to stutter out, “Charity? I – it’s great, of course, I love charity. Um, why?” He can practically hear her smile through the phone – creepy.

“Perfect! You and David will be appearing for a children’s foundation, just let me know when you’re free, or perhaps I’ll just contact your manager…. You’re quite stubborn Mr. Cook, did you know that? Listen, I’ll be touch, so don’t make any radical plan and _do not_ speak to the media, alright?” Cook thinks that Emilie might actually be evil incarnate. “Good bye for now Mr. Cook!” And she hangs up.

“What in fresh hell just happened.” Cook mumbles, mostly to himself, then practically falls over when the phone in his hand rings shrilly. “Hello?” He snaps, already tired of the phone calls. “What?” He expects it’ll be his manager, but it’s not. It’s David Archuleta.

“Um, Cook? David Cook? It’s, uh, it’s David Archuleta.” Cook’s stomach tightens reflexively and he closes his eyes. “I was hoping we could, um, talk. Has Emilie already called you? I’m _so_ sorry.” The boy sounds anxious and upset, and terribly apologetic, so much that it makes Cook sit up and pay more attention.

“Oh. Yeah, Emilie… She’s something.” He laughs. “So – I got a call this morning, from my mom. She’s thrilled I have a boyfriend.” Archuleta makes an embarrassed sound through the phone, which sets Cook off laughing again.

“Oh my _gosh_. It wasn’t even - I can’t believe everyone thinks we’re dating! We only met just yesterday! Even my sisters… They don’t believe me when I said we’re not dating. They think I’m too shy to admit it, but now that there’s ‘photographic evidence’…” Now he sounds exasperated, which just amuses Cook even more, and he realizes with a start that Archuleta is pretty funny.

“Listen, so what are we going to do? I mean, our own families don’t believe us, our publicists, our managers… I think Emilie was saying something about an appearance at a charity. How did this happen?” Cook gets up to sit at his computer – the message boards have exploded with news about him and Archuleta. Most of it is positive feedback, lots of fannish squeals and exclamation points. He sighs.

“Um, we could break up?” Archuleta suggests. (Cook ignores the way his whole body tenses up at the suggestion.) “There’s no use convincing them we aren’t dating, so maybe…”

“And let down the children?” Cook wheedles. “Sounds like Emilie already has that event lined up for us…” This is stupid. He shouldn’t be encouraging this stupid fake relationship, but for some reason, he _is_. It could be – it could just be a publicity stunt. Never mind the fact that he didn’t want a publicity stunt, he just wanted bananas and oranges. People did this kind of thing every day – it wouldn’t be so bad.

“Oh,” Archuleta says, sounding discouraged. “Um, I guess one event wouldn’t be so bad. Except, oh my gosh, will we have to like, kiss and stuff?” Cook stifles a laugh at Archie’s panicked tone.

“Naw, if they think a couple of friendly smiles and a hand on the back is grounds for a relationship, then it shouldn’t take too much more than some hand holding and physical contact to convince them we’re a couple still. It’ll be okay man.” He tries to sound as soothing as possible, despite the nervous excitement curling in his stomach. For some reason the idea of spending more time, spending time _pretending to date_ David Archuleta is – appealing. He squashes the feeling.

“I – okay. Okay. That’s sounds okay. Are you – you’re okay with this? Pretending to date me? It’s not exactly my first choice, a fake relationship, but um, you’re a nice guy, I guess? I don’t know too much about you.” Archie laughs softly, awkwardly.

“Well, why don’t we get to know each other then?” Cook suggests, and they fall into a pattern of asking and answering questions.

They talk for two and half hours before Archuleta has to go. Cook falls back on his bed and feels the glow of happiness spread from his chest to his extremities, and he knows that this is a terrible idea – but he wants to keep going anyway.

 

They talk to each other four more times before they meet again, and Cook spends the entire time making Archie laugh over his veggie sub. They don’t hold hands as they walk from the deli, but Cook bumps Archie affectionately with his shoulder and looks over to see Archie smiling up at him, his eyes crinkled up in a way he didn’t see in magazines. It makes Cook feel smug and triumphant, but he hides it by suggesting they go to the park, since it’s such a nice day. Archie gives him a weird look but goes along with it, singing ‘What a Beautiful Morning!’ under his breath and making Cook’s chest hurt with how much he likes this kid. When Archie talks, it’s always peppered with his restless laughter, and his frequent ‘hmms’ and ‘umms’ as he grasps for the right kind of words. Cook thinks it’s sweet, that he can never quite articulate what he wants to say. Archie accuses Cook of composing prose in his head before he speaks, which is just this side of sassy, and makes Cook laugh so hard he has to lean on a light post. His voice is breathy, and when he rambles it’s like he struggles for air – something Cook knew was related to the vocal chord thing, though he hadn’t yet asked about it. He doesn’t care. It’s weirdly endearing, how he stops to gulp for breath, then steams on, waving his hands wildly to prove his point. Cook kind of likes everything about David Archuleta, even how he gently chastises Cook for swearing (“We’re in public Cook, gosh!”) and how he admits he would have never known who Cook was if his little brother hadn’t been listening to a rock radio station. (“It’s never been my thing – but I wasn’t lying when I said I liked that song!”)

“Well, I’m going to go ahead and admit that your stuff has never exactly been my forte either, but it’s kind of hard to escape when it’s on every radio station, every couple of hours,” Cook teases back, as they round a corner and he pulls Archie onto the park-grounds. “I’ll play you some of my other stuff, later, if that’s cool? And since you desperately need a rock education, I’ll play you some of the classics. The staples of my genre.” Archie nods along agreeably, and loops his arm with Cook’s.

“I _guess_ that would be okay,” Archie murmurs, and smiles widely at him. Cook likes the fact that he doesn’t remind him that they are just fake-dating, and beyond a couple of public outings and an event (or two) they aren’t going to hang out much. Cook likes that Archie’s arm is curled tight around his, allowing Cook to drag him towards the playground and not even complaining as Cook puts a hand on his lower back and ushers him to the swings.

Archie doesn’t complain at all, just throws himself into one swing and starts pumping his legs to go higher and higher, laughing as Cook scrambles to catch up. He’s a blur of color to Cook, who glances sideways and watches as the world tips side to side, as Archie glides past his vision, going almost horizontal at the height of his arc.

“I always loved the swings,” Archuleta admits, riding the swing and letting his legs hang loosely. Cook swings a little harder, but listens. “There was a tree planted near the swings at my elementary school, and I always reached my toes out and tried to touch the leaves. It made me want to go higher, further – made me unafraid of the height or the speed. I had a goal, you know?” His voice is thoughtful, reminiscing. The swing isn’t going half as high now, lazily rocking Archie back and forth, his toes skimming the sand. Cook slows down as well, stilling his body so the momentum won’t carry him higher.

“Did you ever try to jump off the swings?” He asks, tilting his head at the younger boy.

“Oh gosh no,” Archie says, laughing a little. “That was dangerous. You could land wrong and like, break something!”

Cook laughs too, then grimaces. “Which is exactly what happened to me,” he says solemnly, lifting his left hand when Archie looks over. “Left wrist, broken in two places. I tried to brace my fall and, uh, landed on the concrete surrounding the swings.”

Archie winces, dragging his toes in the dirt until he comes to a complete stop. “Oh my gosh! That must have hurt!” Cook stops as well, leaning against the chains to smile goofily at his fake-pretend-really-quite-adorable-boyfriend.

“It did, but I got a mega-cool cast with green tape, and everyone wanted to sign it. I was totally the coolest kid in third grade for the rest of the year.” It felt nice to hear Archuleta laugh, especially since he always looks like he couldn’t help himself – like he just has to laugh at Cook’s silliness. “Hey, wanna spin?”

Cook twists the swing around and lays horizontally, staring up at the spinning sky as it blurs past when he lets go, listening to Archie’s hitching breaths in the swing to his right. He’s dizzy when he sits back up, and the world wobbles around him unsteadily – yet Archie’s face is crystal clear in his mind, happy and relaxed and smiling big enough to split his face in two. The boy clutches at Cook for balance, and almost topples both of them before Cook grabs back and manages to sway them both on their feet, feeling drunk and also happy and not at all like a liar when he hears the cameras go off.

 

It’s not until the charity event, when Cook knocks on Archie’s door and he answers, wearing this shiny, expensive looking blue button down shirt that stretches across his chest, and his hair is kind of floppy and won’t get styled until they get there, and he’s bending over to snag his shoes, yelling “I’m sorry, I know, I’m late! I’m sorry! I just have to, oh my gosh, where is my phone? Okay, wait –“ and Cook stares at his with absolutely _no shame_ that Cook realizes he’s in trouble. It only gets worse as Archie rushes back to the door, panting and clutching a black tie in one hand, his phone in the other hand. His shoes aren’t tied. Cook blinks at him and then escorts him to the car, laughing a little as Archie keeps apologizing.

“Easy,” he says, “I’ll fix you up in the car, don’t panic. I’m sure Emilie or Nat will yell at you when we get there, so just stop stressing until then, how’s that?” Cook smoothes his hand over Archie’s collar, flipping it up so he can fix the tie around his neck. “Besides, you look fine. You always look fine. It’s my ugly mug that you have to worry about being seen with,” he teases.

Archie looks at him, horrified. “Oh my gosh, you are _not_ ugly!” And he says it with such conviction that it makes Cook pause and grin wolfishly at the younger boy, who blushes on cue. “I mean – obviously, you just – you’re not ugly. And I like being seen with you,” he mumbles. Cook smiles once more, and looks away. No use getting caught up in Archie’s downward gaze, or the way his fingers tug nervously at his tight black trousers.

Cook tightens the knot on the tie he just tied, and flips Archie’s collar back down, smoothing his fingers along the material again, making sure it’s straight. “There you go,” he soothes, and then gestures for Archie’s feet. “C’mon, we’ve got to tie those. Knowing you, you’d probably trip on them or something.”

Archie turns red. “Cook! I can tie my own shoes, you know!” He leans over and tightens the laces himself, with Cook watching amusedly. “I’m not a child,” he grumbles, only sitting back up when his shoes are properly tied. “Even if I look like one.”

Cook brushes a finger across Archie’s cheekbone, tapping the side of his face gently. “You don’t look like a child Arch, I promise,” he assures the pop star, who stares with wide, unsure eyes. He locks eyes with the boy for a moment, and feels the tug in his stomach that begs him to lean forward – it’s hard to resist. Somehow, though, he manages it, and turns away from David Archuleta’s magnetic eyes until they arrive at the venue.

At first there’s a lot of shoving and yelling and lights going off in their faces, and Archie’s body is rigid with tension, and his fingers grip Cook’s tightly, looking for a rock to hold on to as they swim through the sea of photographers. Cook smiles tightly and keeps Archie close, nodding at some of the reporters but mostly looking past them, looking down the line towards where the charity was actually taking place, where they could do something good. And once they make it past the gauntlet, it’s like something in Archie just collapses, in a good way. All that anxious tension melts from him, and his hand goes soft and relaxed in it’s grip with Cook’s. Cook pauses for a minute, wondering if Archie wants to let go, now that there aren’t a million pictures being taken, but it’s not like, a limp hand. Just – relaxed. More intertwined, more intimate, strangely enough. Every time they take a step that is slightly off-kilter, their palms bump up against each other. Every time, it sends a shiver up Cook’s arm.

It doesn’t take long for Archie to get distracted by the kids of the charity, and eventually he does slip his hand from Cook’s in order to kneel by a little girl and ask her what her favorite animal is, and if she likes music, and would she like to hear a song? And then Cook listens as Archie sang as many versus of ‘Old McDonald’ as he could, trying to make the animal noises genuine and realistic, as the little girl squeals with laughter and corrects him when he gets it wrong. That feeling of ‘fuck, I am way in over my head’ washes over Cook about a beat after the wave of affection crashes over him. Archie lets the girl hop off his knee to run to her mother, chubby fists curling into the woman’s dress to get her attention. Then Archie turns his face up to Cook’s and smiles, big and bright and beautiful and Cook feels his heart bloom hot and overwhelming in his chest, and he understands too late that he’s already fallen for David Archuleta.

The rest of the day passes in a bit of a haze. Maybe it’s because of all the time he and Archie have spent together, getting to know each other and joking about the entire ridiculous situation, calling each other when the new paparazzi pictures go up on the web, or end up splashed on gossip magazines, pictures of them having lunch or walking the dog, leaning up against each other on a bench. Maybe it’s because Archie had called his mother and spoken with her, blushing the entire time and singing Cook’s praises, even looking straight at Cook when he said “I really like your son. He’s a great guy,” in a voice that sliced Cook to the bone. Maybe it’s the way he’d been terrified to talk to Archie’s siblings, even though Archie had insisted they’d be nice, and how enthusiastic they all were, even when threatening him not to break their brother’s heart. He hadn’t known when he’d signed up for this, agreed to do the fake-dating thing for a while, that he’d actually like David Archuleta, pop star and poster-child. He didn’t know that the little things, how he trailed off in the middle of his sentences, how he broke into song at the slightest reference, the way he licked his lips when he was nervous, or touched Cook to gain a little balance when he felt overwhelmed, he didn’t know how much they’d come to mean to Cook. And now that it is all crashing down around him, in a haze of affection and dismay and truth, he can do nothing but watch helplessly.

The photographers and reporters are back. The kids are all going home, the event is almost over – time to do a little press. Naturally, everyone wants to talk to the two dating Davids, and their names are called repeatedly from all sides. Archie laces his fingers with Cook’s, and it’s soothing to stroke his thumb against Archie’s skin and feel Archie squeeze his hand reassuringly. The reporters ask a lot of dumb, boring questions, and Cook tries a few times to drag the conversation back to the charity or their music, or just pretty much anything but their relationship, but no, apparently everyone is obsessed. Cook’s album sales have _rocketed_ since fake-dating Archie, and it makes him feel dirty and skeevy, like he’s using Archie, even though he never meant to use him in the first place. It seems like dating Cook (fake-dating Cook) has actually helped Archuleta fans adjust to the whole gay thing though, since they seem to really like Cook, and think he’s a good match for Archie. He’s “totally smitten” according to them, and “is going to treat David the way he deserves, which is better than some fame-whore” and all of their comments make Cook want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Cook isn’t really paying attention to the reporter, just stroking his fingers along Archie’s hairline absently as he stares into the middle distance – the only reason he’s prepared when Archie turns to look at him is because he can feel the boy move underneath his fingertips, and he looks down expectantly.

“Cook?” Archie asks, kind of shyly, and Cook isn’t exactly sure what he was just asked, but it couldn’t be too bad, or Archie would be looking panicked.

“Yeah. I mean, yes?” He smiles fondly at Archie, who’s face goes pinkish, and then before he knows what’s happening, Archie is leaning up and _kissing_ him, his soft mouth pressing sweetly to his, his hands curling into Cook’s chest. Cook is frozen for a minute, then wraps one arm around Archie’s back and cradles the back of his head with his other hand, holding him gently in place as he carefully, carefully kisses back. He doesn’t rush it, but then Archie makes a soft sound into his mouth and he can practically taste every vowel. He knows, (he can’t forget no matter how much he wants to), he knows that this is for show. The reporter, or some photographer, they wanted a kiss, and that’s what Archie asked him for, and that’s what he agreed too. So he pulls back, leaning his forehead against Archie’s, pushing one last, affectionate kiss to the corner of his mouth, and then breaking off completely, smiling towards the reporter and the cameras, making it just this side of smug and mostly as calm and relaxed and happy as he could. Archie is beaming beside him, laughing awkwardly and brushing off the compliments.

They make it an early night, no doubt inspiring gossip amongst the other patrons, and the media-vultures. Cook can imagine what they imagine, that he’s taking Archie home and carefully taking off the clothes he so carefully helped put on. Loosening the tie he tightened, and unbuttoning the shirt he straightened. Untying the shoes that were haphazardly thrown on, and running a hand through Archie’s carefully styled hair, until it falls into disarray again. He knows what the public thinks – that he’ll suck on Archie’s bottom lip until it’s red and swollen, and then lick his way into his mouth, causing him to moan and his arms will wrap around Cook’s neck, and his hips will brush against Cook’s, their curved bodies rubbing together sweetly. And maybe some will think he leaves it at that, breaking off with one final kiss goodnight, leaving Archie’s virtue in tact, but he knows what the rest of them think. That he’ll strip Archie down to bare skin and nothing, and rid himself of clothing too, and then he’ll press the younger boy down into the mattress, hands spanning across acres of pale, perfect skin, drawing designs with his fingertips, marking him with his mouth. It might get a little more rushed, then, Archie keening as his touch ignites his blood and makes his heart race, his hips arching and thrusting, looking for friction, waiting for the heavy hand Cook will lay against his groin.

Cook can see it all perfectly. He closes his eyes, and keeps his forehead pressed to the cool glass in the car, ignoring Archie whose eyes he can feel boring into his back, a worried stare that makes him ache.

“Are you okay?” And Cook can’t just brush him off, especially not when Archie’s hand lands on his shoulders, a warm weight of concern. He turns and smiles tiredly, which makes Archie smile back.

“I’m fine. I’ll – let me walk you to your door.” And then he’s climbing out of the stopped car, helping Archie out, and walking him silently up the pathway to Archie’s front door.

Archie’s having trouble with his keys, and Cook – Cook’s not sure if he can wait until they fake-break up to get over this. Because Archie had kissed him, and Archie held his hand, even when he didn’t have to, and if he has a chance, and misses it? He’ll regret it for the rest of his life. So Cook takes a deep breath and watches Archie fit the key into the lock, twisting it until the door clicks open.

“Archie,” he starts, and then stops when Archie looks up at him, his face absurdly beautiful in the soft orange glow of his porch lamp. It takes him a minute to gather his courage again, but the boy doesn’t rush him, just waits patiently. “Can we talk? Just – for a minute.”

The boy blinks then holds his door open and gestures Cook in. “Of course, gosh, come in.” He shuts the door against moths and mosquitoes, turning to face Cook. “Did you want something to drink?” He asks, always polite. _’Such a nice boy,’_ Cook hears, his mother’s voice in his head. He laughs softly to himself.

“No, just – about our, our relationship. I kind of don’t want to fake-date any more.” There. He said it. He doesn’t meet Archie’s eyes.

“You – you want to break up? Um, already? I thought maybe, another few weeks? It’s – but whatever you want, of course.” Archie’s voice – it sounds _broken_. Cook’s head snaps up and his hand snakes out to grab Archie by the elbow.

“ _What?_ ” Cook asks, peering curiously at Archie. The teenager stares at the floor, his expression unreadable. “Break up…? No, Archie, I don’t want to _break up_ with you. I just don’t want to _fake date_ you.” He tilts Archie’s chin up so he can watch the boy’s face carefully. He looks confused, and – and a little hurt. Understanding blooms through Cook, and he carefully wraps Archie up in a hug. “I don’t want to fake date you Arch, mostly because I want to date you for _real_.” He closes his eyes and prays that he read this right, because he’s not sure if he could take all this build up, all this hope, and just leave his heart crushed on the floor between them.

Archie’s hands push against his chest, making room between their bodies and Cook is preparing himself to get thrown out, to see the expression of regret and polite rejection on Archie’s face, but all he sees is wonder and hope. It makes the hope in his own heart pick up it’s pace, beat rapidly and look for a companion in it’s search.

“Really?” Then Archie has him practically by the ears, dragging him down to kiss him breathless, his mouth open and hot and wet against Cook’s, sucking hard and desperate and _needy_. Cook’s swamped by emotion, but he understands enough to know to clutch back and hold him tight and never, ever let go.


End file.
